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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013049">young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with confidence</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattition/pseuds/Mattition'>Mattition</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does. [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Sugar Daddy, Anxiety, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, gender stuff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:55:55</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,779</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28013049</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattition/pseuds/Mattition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>He would never have been a prima ballerina, even if he’d kept up with it, but it’s nice to imagine it sometimes, him a vision in water colour pinks and a faceless man that keeps looking more and more like Elias in staid blacks, floating around each other in dizzying, elaborate circles.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does. [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2043436</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>56</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>young and beautiful and in love and waiting for you with confidence</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>CW: includes references to piercings, anxiety, gender issues, and (so so obliquely) disordered eating.</p><p>Title is from Richard Siken's <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/48158/litany-in-which-certain-things-are-crossed-out"> Litany in Which Certain Things are Crossed-Out</a></p><p>Again, this is literally just a conversation, sprinkled liberally with ~introspection~ because I have a chronic case of the Genders, so Jon does, too</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“I look stupid,” Jon hedges down the phone, tugging at the hem of the floaty little shorts like it’ll somehow make them longer. </p><p>“You look stunning,” Elias contradicts, in that smug tone he gets sometimes when he’s particularly pleased with himself.</p><p>“You can’t even see me,” Jon complains, before putting the phone on speaker and setting it down on his dresser. It’s an old thing, all scratched veneer and gently aging metal. It had been in his grandmother’s basement for years before it was here, and in his parents’ bedroom before that. He’s not sure why it’s the sole thing from their bedroom set that his grandmother kept, but he’d taken it with him when he finally moved into a real flat and not a grotty little room in student accommodations. He’s not a vain man, but he does like the great mirror attached to the dresser. It makes the room feel bigger, and it’s been endlessly useful when he’s been posing for pictures to send to Elias. He has a little polaroid tucked between the glass and the frame, just a slightly blurry thing he’d taken of him and Elias at a Christmas market the year before. It’s not the best lit or most well framed thing he’s ever taken, but he likes how clearly he can see the green of Elias’ eyes in the warm light. Elias had called him sentimental when he’d seen it, but he certainly had pictures of a similar calibre around his house and office.</p><p>He takes a step back to see his full body. The sleeves of the top flutter as he smooths his hair down. He strikes a pose for himself, jutting his hip out and smiling at his reflection. It feels nice to wear, of course; the material is high quality, for all that it’s thin enough as to be see-through. It nearly defies gravity, it’s so floaty. It makes him feel a bit like he’s dancing, it reminds him so viscerally of the pretty romantic tutus he’d ogled when he was still in ballet. He would never have been a prima ballerina, even if he’d kept up with it, but it’s nice to imagine it sometimes, him a vision in water colour pinks and a faceless man that keeps looking more and more like Elias in staid blacks, floating around each other in dizzying, elaborate circles. He sighs a bit and does a little twirl.</p><p>Elias looks the type to do ballroom dancing, actually. He’d not liked it as much as ballet, but he was reasonably good at waltzing, though he’d stopped before he’d learnt to lead. Elias would lead him, though, he’d never have to worry about it, he wouldn’t even have the choice. He imagines them at one of those parties from Pride and Prejudice. Elias would twirl him around a ballroom for hours; they’d be the talk of the town. He wouldn’t look bad in those Edwardian dresses, even if his waist really should be the star of the show. Maybe a 50’s style ball, instead.</p><p>He’d had some acquaintances in costume design in uni, and one of them had asked him to model a dress when she’d sewn it too small for herself. He remembers how tiny his waist had looked, and how quiet that fuzzy patch of dysmorphia that he keeps nestled between two ribs had been when he wore it. Now that he thinks about it, and he supposes he should have before now, he hasn’t had <em>any</em> of that usual background grumbling, that roiling feeling of uncomfortability that had become his baseline, since Elias has been calling him the more cutesy names, asking him to be pretty. He squints at himself in the mirror. He’s certainly not a woman, he knows that for a fact, and he knows that Elias knows as well. Maybe he’s just prolonging the inevitable meltdown. </p><p>“—and anyway, you always look amazing, mon petit, you’re so graceful. Like a dancer,” Elias is saying. Jon’d missed the first bit, but he can’t stifle a surprised giggle. Of course Elias would say that. It’s like that man can read minds, sometimes.</p><p>“That’s funny,” Jon says as he unlocks his cell phone. He’s not quite sure how it works to take pictures and talk on the phone at the same time, so he’d just called Elias on the landline. “I was a dancer for a while.”</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Yeah, I did ballet until I was 16,” He carefully arranges himself on the end of his bed, sitting demurely and trying his best to look directly into the camera. Elias really likes eye contact. “Won a few competitions. Did a few recitals.”</p><p>“My very own ballerina,” Elias coos in that playfully mocking tone that never fails to make Jon blush. He cuts a look at the phone, as if Elias could see him. He pouts at the mirror and snaps another few pictures. “Mon petit danseur! Shall we get you a tutu? You still have your pointe shoes, don’t you?” </p><p>“No!” Jon squeaks, knowing full well that his pointe shoes are stuffed in the hall closet next to his ice skates. “You’re a menace, I don’t know why I tell you anything,”</p><p>“You love it, pet.” Elias tells him, all smug assuredness. Jon wants to rebut that, but, of course, he’s right. He’s not sure where he’d be or what he’d be doing if Elias weren’t around, and not just because he needs to pay the rent. He’s always been an anxious person, always been shy and scary, but with Elias around, he feels <em>sexy</em> and confident. It’s a bit of a let down when he inevitably ends up working himself up or freaking out the second Elias is away. He’s usually fine, but it seems almost worse, contrasted by how safe he feels when he’s cradled in Elias’ comforting control. Jon just whines a bit at the phone, much to Elias’ apparent pleasure. He laughs, snorts a little at the end. Jon tries to hide his smile, even though Elias can’t see him.</p><p>He shuffles around a bit, trying to balance prettily on his knees. The wide neckline of the top keeps slipping down his shoulder, leaving his collar bones and a good portion of his chest exposed. If anything, it leaves his stealth collar on spectacular display. The bar in his right nipple glints a bit as he self-consciously takes a picture. He’d been a bit apprehensive about them, especially since he wasn’t always a big fan of his breasts, but Elias had convinced him over a weekend that he really <em>was</em> quite fond of having his nipples played with, and that he’d probably like it even more with them pierced. It had presented a bit of an issue, since Jon then had wanted Elias to indulge his new favorite form of stimulation, but his nipples were so sore for <em>weeks</em> after the actual piercing, that even the barest touch was a sort of agony. Elias had banned any kind of chest play for months, citing Jon’s concerning lack of self-preservation and extraordinarily sensitive erogenous zones. He was reluctant to hurt Jon in ways he thought might actually do lasting damage, and he’d had a hell of a time getting Jon to stop rubbing his chest on the mattress when Elias took him from behind or trying to pull on his nipples when Elias wasn’t watching closely enough. That last had gotten Jon well in trouble, and his arse was bruised for what felt like weeks afterward. </p><p>“If you can dance, and you can sing, and you act so well, what the hell aren’t you doing on stage, princess?” Elias asks him, after a long moment of silence.</p><p>“I get too anxious,” Jon admits. He used to have terrible panic attacks before shows. It somehow had become part of his routine; he’d go to the theatre early, get ready except for his makeup, have a panic attack, then go do his makeup and go on stage. He had thought that it wasn’t any worse than what some of the other dancers did to keep themselves in shape. That was what he had needed to do to perform. He’d realized later that it didn’t work so well if you had to actually speak or sing. He’d still done quite a few shows like that: panic attack and then slugging down half a bottle of honey, before deciding that he’d rather just. Not.</p><p>“Ah,” Elias acknowledges, “I suppose that would present an issue.” Jon hums in agreement. He’s getting a little frustrated with the top. For all that it’s pretty and comfortable, it’s really rather annoying. He keeps having to adjust the neck so it doesn’t fall weirdly, and the wide bell sleeves are getting on his last nerve, floating around wherever they want. He must make some sort of frustrated noise, because Elias says, “oh, just take it off.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The shirt, I know it’s bothering you; take it off.” If not for how pleased Elias sounds, Jon would think he was annoyed. </p><p>“You’re making me strip and you’re not even here to see it,” Jon complains, making Elias bark a laugh. </p><p>“I’ve got an active enough imagination, don’t you worry about me, baby boy.”</p><p>Of all of Elias’ pet names, that one always shudders through him. He makes a flustered little sound and hurries to remove the flouncy little top. He knows that there is a little bralette somewhere that matches the panties he is wearing, but he’s not sure if it’s here or at Elias’ flat. He hums absentmindedly as he returns to the dresser to dig through his underwear drawer. He really ought to organize it in some manner, instead of just chucking the nice lingerie in with his plain pants and the pairs of boxers he’d stolen from Elias. </p><p>“Don’t you have meetings to be at anyway?” Jon asks, reluctantly disemboweling the drawer in his search. “I don’t want to distract you from work; I know how important the Institute is to you.”</p><p>“Considerate thing. No, I don’t have any meetings for a few hours yet. Besides, there’s only so long a man can stare at spreadsheets before he starts tearing out his hair.” Jon huffs out a laugh. He really should have guessed it from how they’d met, but he <em>had</em> been surprised to find out just how funny Elias was. </p><p>“Okay,” he finally unearths the bralette in the back corner of the drawer. He’d never noticed until now just how deep they went. As he puts it on, he says, “Thank you for taking time with me, then.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else, princess. “</p>
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